by Sharon Lee
"How do matters stand at Xandurana?" Altimere asked into the pause. He chose a sliver of cheese from the platter and held it out, as if he would pass a tit-bit to a favorite hound. Becca leaned forward, lips parted to accept the offering, her gaze held by Altimere's amber eyes.
She swallowed the cheese and leaned back on her pillow, reaching again for her wine glass. A glance beneath her lashes showed Jandain watching, lips parted, as if entranced. He reached for his own glass and forcibly moved his attention to Altimere.
"The Queen is beset, which will perhaps amuse you," he answered, leaning back on one elbow and twirling the glass between his fingers. "Indeed, it seemed that Zaldore was very close indeed to calling the question. Certainly, she has pledges enough."
"But how many of those pledges will stand with her to see the thing through, should she prevail?" Altimere murmured, half of his attention seemingly on choosing another bit of cheese. He found one and once more held it out. Once more, Becca leaned forward, head tipped back, to receive the treat from his fingers. He brushed her cheek, and looked over to their guest, who appeared to be studying the contents of his wineglass.
Becca reached for her own wine. She drank deeply, the peppery taste burning her throat, and lay back, raising the glass, and watching in dismay as the Gossamers refilled it.
"Your pardon," Altimere said to Jandain. "You had said Zaldore had been close to calling the question. As I have received no word that the Constant is called to attend the Queen, I must suppose that she was forestalled." He sipped his wine and chose yet another piece of cheese—this one, happily, for his own consumption, as he relaxed in boneless elegance into the pillows.
"I trust that Zaldore enjoys her accustomed good health?" he murmured.
Jandain laughed, short and sharp.
"Oh, she's healthy enough! As to what stayed her hand—" He glanced at Becca and inclined his head politely—"it is, I feel, the sudden interest of some parties in trade and intercourse—with those on the far side."
Altimere raised a languid brow. "Ah. Are we grown bold enough as a race to try the keleigh? You encourage me."
The guest laughed lightly. "Nay, nay. There's a move afoot to cast the keleigh down, and unite the races."
Altimere tipped his head to one side, elegant brows pulled slightly together. Becca raised her glass, realized what she was about and tried to set the thing aside. Despite her will to the contrary, her hand continued to rise, the glass came to her lips, and she drank deeply, head thrown back as she drained the glass. She leaned forward with a toss of her head to replace it upon the table.
Her hair, too loosely confined by the pins, shifted as she did so, and tumbled willy-nilly around her shoulders.
"Oh!" she cried, snatching at the fall too late. She felt a blush flame into her cheeks, and struggled upright, the dress suddenly clinging in all the wrong places, tying her to the couch more surely than—
"Peace." Altimere leaned over and touched her lightly on the forehead. A feeling more like languor than peace filled her, drowning her dismay in honeyed waves. "Gently, child. How many times have I said to you that the customs of your homeland are not the same as we observe here in the Vaitura?"
Becca looked down, swallowing hard in her abraded throat. "Many times, sir," she said humbly, her voice husky and subdued.
"Indeed. Why should we not admire your lovely hair—unless—" He looked to Jandain.
"But perhaps this display disgusts the guest?"
Jandain leaned forward, extending a hand across the table. "Miss Beauvelley," he said softly. Becca drew in herself, wishing she might dissolve into the pillows, as her head rose and she met his eyes shyly.
"It is inconceivable that you could offend any of my sensibilities," Jandain said. "It is as Altimere has taught you—our customs are different—perhaps very different than those you have known. Your hair is lovely, and I am pleased to see it thus."
Becca felt her lips shape a tentative smile. Her left hand rose laboriously, pain shooting like flame through the damaged muscles. Tears started to her eyes, but she did not—could not—cry out, and still her hand rose, until she placed it in his.
He smiled, and ran his thumb lightly over her knuckles. Becca felt a shudder of longing pass over her skin—and then it was gone, leaving only warmth.
"If we are all finished here," Altimere murmured, reaching over to take Becca's hand from Jandain. He kissed it, lingeringly, and placed it on her lap before looking up to the guest. "Let us repair to the terrace for another glass of wine. I would be grateful, Jandain, if you would honor me with your opinion of my evening garden."
As always, she curled next to Altimere's chair and leaned her head on his knee. His fingers stroked her hair lazily. They sat quiet for a time, overlooking the garden as dusk fell and the flowers began to shine, giving back, so Altimere had told her, the light they had taken in from the sun all day. Everything was precisely as it always was, with the exception of the man sitting on the chair at Altimere's right hand.
It was wrong, she thought rebelliously, that they should have a stranger sharing their special time and place. It was intrusive and distressing. She wished that Jandain would simply go—
The thought faded, and she nestled more closely against Altimere, eyes half-closed as she watched the moonbees flit between the flowers.
"So you tell me," Altimere murmured, "that Zaldore has challenged the Queen outright?"
Jandain laughed. "Indeed not! I tell you that Zaldore failed of asking the question that we were all poised to hear. Instead, she implored we of the Constant to create a new seat among ourselves, as per the Mediation, and that seat to be given to a hero. This was, as you might imagine, diverting, and we all strained to hear the name of the one she would propose. Instead, what should she do but call for an adjournment, to consider this weighty matter, and so we were twice disappointed. "
Altimere's attention was wholly on the merchant; Becca's more distant attention wavered between the two Fey, each with certain admirable qualities of person . . .
"Such disarray scarcely seems like her," Altimere commented. "I wonder if she had some deep plan which went awry?"
"That would be most like the Zaldore who has been a gadfly amongst us since she took her chair," Jandain answered. "And I believe you may have the right of it. For a moment it seemed as if she expected this hero to appear from smoke and air to be seated at once. When there was no such manifestation, then came the appeal for an adjournment." There was a slight pause, as if Jandain savored his wine. "She has since been calling on everyone, regardless of their known affiliations. I had not yet had the pleasure of a visit before I felt it necessary to take up your invitation, but it scarcely seems likely that all this politicking is aimed at the creation of a single new chair."
"It seems strange in the extreme," Altimere conceded after a time. "But surely all will soon be revealed? The adjournment must swiftly be drawing to a close."
"So it is. There was rumor that Zaldore has another string to her bow, but what that may be, no one I speak to has been able to discover."
Silence, in which Becca floated, the night garden blurred to an agreeable smear of light before her drowsing eyes.
"Well," Altimere murmured, twining his fingers through Becca's hair. "But what are we about, to sit talking of politics! Do tell me what you think of the garden! I know you have an artist's eye, whereas I am merely a technician—"
Becca drowsed, their voices a pleasant rise and fall, like the sound of the wind in the trees. How long she might have dozed, she did not know; but she was roused by Altimere's voice.
". . . poor child is exhausted! Come, there will be an end to our cruelty. Rise, rise and make your goodnights . . ."
She lifted her head as he rose from his chair. He lifted her to her feet and turned her toward Jandain, who had risen to his own tall height. She made an unsteady curtsy.
"Good night, Jandain Sleep well in our house."
He bowed. "Good night, Miss Be
auvelley. Please forgive me for having kept you so long from your rest!"
For some reason, she smiled, then turned to Altimere. "Good night, sir," she murmured, and stretched high on her toes, her face turned up to his, lips parted, her right hand on his shoulder.
He laughed lightly, slipping his fingers through her hair and holding her head between his hands. "Greedy child," he whispered, and kissed her, his lips bruising hers; his tongue forcing her mouth wide.
Liquid flame shot up her backbone; she leaned into the kiss, demanding—and then he withdrew, setting her gently on her feet, and slipping his fingers free of her hair.
"Good night, zinchessa," he said. Becca turned and walked in to the house, along the dim hallways, and up to her room.
It was dark in her bedroom. Altimere was busy with his guest and Nancy had been banished. She would never be able to remove the dress herself, and she did not wish to ruin it by sleeping in it.
She was so tired! Becca yawned and stopped by the bed. Hands, or gloves without hands, appeared, casting pale shadows against the darkness. Becca smiled. Of course! Altimere would have thought of her needs, and left orders.
The Gossamers had the dress off in a trice; two took her hands and led her to the bed, tenderly drawing the covers up to her chin.
One stroked her forehead, and it seemed that Becca heard Altimere's voice, murmuring, "Sleep."
Chapter Twenty-Seven
She woke all at once, with the feeling that someone had spoken her name. The room was awash in sunlight, but as far as she could tell she was alone—no, even as she thought so, the door to her bathing room swung open, and the coverlet was drawn gently back. It could, Becca thought, hardly be any clearer what was expected of her.
So thinking, she slipped out of bed and went to have her bath.
Jandain rose from behind the table and bowed as she entered the dining room, bathed, her hair in a demure knot at the back of her head, dressed in a green split skirt and a white shirt laced with green cord.
"And now," he said dramatically, "it can truly be said that the sun has risen!"
That was quite ridiculous, of course, and it was on the edge of her tongue to tell him so, but instead she looked down, as if confused by his compliment, and slipped into her place.
"I hope that everything is as you like it," she said, watching her cup fill with coffee.
"I am pleased by everything," he said lightly. "Altimere is a generous host." He leaned forward suddenly, and felt herself compelled to raise her head and meet his blue, blue eyes. "Ah." He smiled and leaned back. "Indeed, I hear that he has outdone himself in generosity, and that you are to be my hostess today."
"Yes," she said, as the precise amount of cream she preferred was added to her coffee. "I am at your disposal today, sir. Is there something in particular you would care to do or to see? The gardens are quite . . . amazing. We might go for a walk, if you desire it. Or we could ride."
"I think that I should like to ride this morning," he said, watching her even as he broke a muffin and spread jam on it.
Becca felt a thrill of pleasure at the prospect of riding Rosamunde—and then dread. For Elyd was dead and there was no one to saddle—
"Miss Beauvelley," Jandain murmured, and once again she felt compelled to raise her head and look into his eyes. "May I call you Rebecca?"
"Certainly," she heard her voice say, before she had time to consider the matter, and Jandain smiled.
"Excellent," he murmured, and picked up his cup. "Please, do not feel that you need to make small talk with me. I am content to lie here and bask in your beauty while you break your fast."
Becca felt her cheeks heat again, and looked down into her coffee cup.
"You, sir, are quite ridiculous," she heard herself say.
Jandain laughed. "So it has been said—many times!"
Becca cast him a sideways look from beneath her lashes. He smiled at her, and sipped his coffee.
"Now, there's a filly in want of a ride," Jandain commented as they entered the stables, and Becca smiled for the praise of Rosamunde.
"Indeed, she is a very fine horse!" she said, seeing with relief that the horses—Rosamunde and a big-chested white stallion—were both saddled and waiting. The Gossamers, of course. She hoped that Altimere would give them a gift, to compensate them for the extra work that had fallen upon them.
"Rosamunde is the granddaughter of one of Altimere's horses," she continued, laying her hand on the filly's nose. Immediately, she felt the warmth of Rosamunde's regard, tempered by—something. She hesitated, but here was Jandain, setting his hands around her waist; Becca gasped, shrank back—and caught up against Rosamunde's shoulder.
"Gently," Jandain murmured. "I only wish to lift you to your saddle."
His hands were firm, and Becca looked up at him shyly.
"Of course," she whispered, and he smiled.
Once she was up and gathering the reins into her good hand, he swung onto the back of his own beast, which danced under him in a show of impatience that seemed utterly lost on Jandain.
"Pasha wants to run," he commented. "Shall we have a race?"
"Certainly, if you like it. But what shall we have for a prize?"
"Why not a kiss?"
Becca frowned. "Are you so certain of victory, sir?"
He laughed and held up a hand. "No, you mistake me! If I win, I shall kiss you. If you win, you shall kiss me! Surely, that's a fair division of wealth."
Becca clicked to Rosamunde and that lady moved out of the stable.
"Very well," she heard herself say as they passed Jandain and Pasha. "The stakes are acceptable."
The white stallion gained an early lead across their impromptu course. Becca threw herself along Rosamunde's neck, and dropped the reins, letting her run.
Run she did, passionate, fleet, and determined, the ground a blur beneath her hooves and her mane lashing Becca's cheek. Together, they ran, they flew—
They gained. Inch by inch Rosamunde closed the distance between them, until she was at Jandain's stirrup. And there she stayed, unable to gain more, unwilling—determined—to lose an inch.
Hooves pounding, they rounded the third corner, heading for the finish.
The white horse stretched, and Rosamunde did, keeping her place, but unable to gain. Becca clung to her neck, exhilarated—and there! There was the finish! Certainly, they were going to lose, but the white stallion knew that he had been in a race, by good seed, and Jandain the Fey as—
Ten lengths from the finish, the stallion checked, slowed—and Rosamunde tore past, passing the fourth corner, and coming around—guided now by Becca's hand—to where Pasha stood, Jandain smiling at her from the saddle.
"You, sir, are unhandsome!" Becca cried angrily.
He laughed, and moved his hand, showing her the post they had agreed on as the finish.
"You and your lady won, did you not?"
"We did not!" Becca said hotly.
Jandain blinked, his smile vanishing.
"You pulled back and let us pass! Did you think I would not see? Do you think that she would not know? That was no win, but a cheat!"
Jandain's pale cheeks flushed bright red.
"Do you say I cheated?" he asked in a tone so quietly dangerous it pierced Becca's fury.
She drew a hard breath, and leaned over to stroke Rosamunde's neck. "Swift, my lady," she murmured, "and beautiful. You have spirit, grace and heart, and you ran with all—an admirable race, my lady . . ."
"Do you say," Jandain asked again, as Pasha walked toward them, "that I cheated, Rebecca?"
She raised her head and met his eyes. "I do," she said, slightly more temperately "—and it is nothing nor the truth, sir. You pulled up. 'Twas not a fair race." She took a deep breath, meeting his eyes firmly. "You mock my horse, sir, and her lineage."
Jandain's lips parted—but he closed them again without giving voice to whatever he had thought to say. The color receded, leaving his cheeks properly pale, his eyes a g
littering deep blue. He considered her for a long moment, then bowed low from his saddle.
"Lady Rosamunde, your pardon. It was never my intention to mock you—or to anger your fair rider."
Rosamunde flicked her ears, and he smiled slightly.
"I see my poor manners are forgiven." He tipped his head. "And you, cruel beauty?"
Becca looked down at Rosamunde's mane, suddenly overcome with shyness. "If Rosamunde accepts your apology, it would be churlish in me to refuse it," she murmured.
"Reprieved," he said, lightly, flashing his wide, brilliant smile that was so different from Altimere's.
